Chapter 10
Faking It
Vincent comes and cleans out our entire garage. I suppose he felt bad when Mom complained about the mess Mark left.
He lets himself in the front door one morning when everyone is out, waking me from my nap. When he walks through the house, and I hear his boots on the kitchen floor, I jump up to scamper after him. Very polite, he holds the door open for me as we both go out to the garage.
“Ladies first.”
Why, thank you!
Raising both overhead doors so that light pours in, Vincent gives our garage the thorough cleaning that Mark did not quite achieve. In fact, he does much more than his fair share. He moves the bikes and other sports equipment out to the driveway before sweeping. He straightens the garbage and recycling cans. He piles his building tools and equipment carefully in one corner, so a car can once again park in the empty space.
I watch Vincent from the stairs that lead from the garage to the house. It is my favorite perch. I can see the green of the pine trees outside and breathe in the humid spring air, all while remaining in the cool shadows.
When he is done, a bead of sweat runs down Vincent’s face. He pushes his glasses more securely on his nose when they slip down. His face is red and his breathing uneven.
My! I hope he is not having heart trouble of some kind.
I walk outside, stretch my legs, and sit under my favorite bush. Vincent wipes his brow, and closes the garage doors as he heads back into the house. Once the grinding noise of the doors stops, all is quiet. I am able to hear the rustle of marsh grasses across the street, and the chatter of the birds in the woods behind us. A seagull swoops overhead with a loud cry.
I hunt for mice as the sun rises high in the sky. I wasn’t expecting to get outside today. Usually after Mom leaves for work in the morning, I go back to sleep. So this is a nice change of pace.
I do believe this is the cleanest our garage has ever been. Once in a while, Mom asks Kevin to sweep it out. But the family rarely straightens up the way Vincent just did.
When he lived here, Dad sometimes spent time in the garage. He has a special cabinet that he keeps locked. He did not let anyone in his cabinet, not even Mom. He would only open it when other humans were not around.
There was one day last spring when Mom asked aloud if Kevin knew where the key was. Kevin just shrugged. He said he had no idea.
Dad had his secrets. But everyone has a right to privacy. I firmly believe that. When I am cleaning myself, I prefer to do it alone, in an otherwise empty room.
That same day, Mom asked Dad about the cabinet. He was drinking a cup of coffee at the kitchen table and looked surprised, caught off guard. He just shrugged, saying he’d lost the key, and would look for it later. Snapping the newspaper open in front of him, he made it clear the conversation was over.
But I knew the key was not lost. Dad opened the cabinet frequently enough for me to know better.
* * *
About an hour later, I hear voices, far away. I take a look in the direction of the noise. Charlie and Victoria are walking up the street, coming home from the bus stop.
Victoria approaches the garage and presses some buttons to lift the doors. Her mouth drops open in surprise. “Who cleaned up?”
“Maybe Vincent was here,” Charlie says. “Wow. It looks amazing.” He bends to slip his backpack off. It’s stuffed full and Charlie lets it slide from his shoulder with a groan. He straightens back up. “Maybe we should hang here and enjoy the nice weather for a while before we go in.”
“Yeah,” Victoria says with a shrug. “It’s actually pretty decent out. The sun feels warm.”
Charlie sniffs. Sometimes I think he is allergic to the outdoors, the way the sun makes him sneeze. “Did you ever have Mr. Carver for science? I’m so glad I got him for biology.”
They get into a conversation about Charlie’s science class. Victoria tells him a few stories about her own teacher.
Eventually, a group of boys appear as they round the corner. As they get closer, my siblings stop and watch. Victoria slowly slides her own yellow backpack off, dropping it at her feet on the driveway. Charlie and Victoria face each other and continue their conversation. But I can see: They’re watching the boys.
“Hey, Vicky,” one of the lead boys calls to Victoria as they run past. He is an athletic young man. It’s a warm day, and his T-shirt is off and tucked into the waistband of his shorts. She waves back.
When the next group comes by, another boy yells, from the middle of the pack. “Hi, Vic!”
This time she smiles. “Pete, run faster! You’re falling behind,” she teases him.
Finally, the last stragglers jog down the street, including the boy who spoke to Charlie before.
“Hey again,” he says to Charlie, when he gets close. “You live here, huh? Cool. You’re so close to the beach.”
“Yeah,” Charlie says, glancing down at his sneakers.
“Hi, I’m Vicky,” Victoria says brightly.
Charlie gives her a quick glance of panic before turning back to the boy. “I’m Charlie.”
“Yeah, I know.” The boy smiles and nods, his face friendly and open. He slows down and then stops, allowing the other boys to sprint ahead. His face is pink, but he is not sweating yet, as they have just started running. “My name’s Ronaldo.”
“It is?” Charlie meets his eyes for the first time. “My friend Karen told me it was Raul.”
“Ah, so you’ve been talking about me?” Ronaldo teases him.
Charlie’s lips part, but no words come out. He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets.
Something about Ronaldo’s voice sounds interesting. He pronounces words a little differently than my humans. His skin is darker, and his hair is cut very short. Ronaldo couldn’t look more different from Charlie, in the same way my long creamy fur is very different from that of a short-haired tabby.
He continues, talking very fast. “It’s Ronaldo, like the footballer from Brazil. Or soccer player, as you say. That’s how you can remember it. You’ve heard of him, right?”
Once again, Charlie seems at a loss for words. He can barely look at the boy, never mind keep the conversation going.
The boy gestures toward the open road. “Okay, well . . . I’ve gotta run. Literally.”
Victoria laughs, sounding delighted. “Yeah, you better get going,” she says. “They’re going to think you’re slacking off.”
Charlie just squints and studies the pavement. “Okay,” he says quietly. “See you tomorrow, maybe.”
“Definitely.” Ronaldo smiles, and heads off.
Victoria gives her brother a disgusted look. As if to say: Really?
My nose twitches. I’m not sure why she is so dissatisfied.
Charlie stares down toward the end of the street. Once
Ronaldo is out of sight, he exhales. “Oh my God,” he moans.
“Oh my God. That was so painful.”
“Do you like that kid?”
“Do I like him?” Charlie turns back to his sister. “Are you kidding? Did you see him?” He sounds like he is in agony. “Oh my God.”
She smirks. “Yeah. I saw him.” She shakes her head at the look of misery on her brother’s face. “C’mon, Charlie. You couldn’t laugh when he was trying to be funny? You didn’t even crack a smile. You looked like you were going to throw up. You can do better than that.”
“I can? I really don’t think I can. I can’t.”
“Yeah, you can. It sounds like he follows soccer. Maybe you should look it up and learn something.”
Charlie leans over and lifts his backpack, wincing as he heaves it onto his back. He sighs. “I don’t know, Vic. I already have to study baseball to talk to Dad. I don’t want to fake it with Ronaldo too. It’s too exhausting.”
Victoria tips her head, considering this. I approach her, and rub against her ankles.
Go easy on him. He seems uncomfortable.
“Okay,” she finally says. “I guess you’re right. Never mind what I said. But you could be a little more chatty.”
“I couldn’t think of what to say.”
“How about: Where are you from? Where’d you go to school before? How do you like the sailing team? What team do you follow in soccer? Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah?”
Charlie kicks a small rock. “He didn’t have time for all that.” I watch the rock roll away.
Victoria reaches out to give Charlie’s shoulder a gentle push. “I think he’d make time for you. He completely stopped running. He stood there in the middle of the street. He couldn’t wipe the stupid smile off his face. C’mon, Charlie.”
“I don’t know about that,” Charlie objects, but he’s looking away now. Thinking about it.
I’m a little confused. Is Victoria suggesting that Charlie needs to be more aggressive about making new friends? I suppose that must be it.
Charlie has always been tentative with other people. He watches and waits. He is careful. I think he feels safer keeping to himself sometimes.
“Hey, Vic,” Charlie says, wincing, “Don’t say anything to Kevin, okay? I mean . . .” He glances down the street. “Don’t mention Ronaldo.”
Victoria opens her mouth, as if to object, but then shuts it tight. She swallows and makes a face like she has a sore throat. “Sure. Yeah, okay. I won’t. He doesn’t need to know. He’s been kind of a jerk lately. He thinks he’s the boss now that Dad’s gone.”
Aidan too, I remind her. Don’t leave him off your list of idiots.
Charlie gets his backpack centered on his back, and reaches down to pick me up. I explode in a purr at the touch of his hands. It reminds me of lying on Dad’s chest. Dad and Charlie have the same strong but gentle hands. They have the same eyes. The same scent.
Dad and Charlie. Both sensitive in their own ways.
I’m determined to help my sweet boy, if I can just figure out how. I think if Dad is not moving back home, then Mom must be the key. She has been tired, and sad, and miserable. There must be a way to help her feel better, so she can focus more energy on Charlie.
I hate seeing Charlie’s bruises, and I don’t like to think that what happened to me as a kitten is now happening to Charlie as a young man. It is forcing me to think about those days when I was young and helpless, and I can’t stand thinking about it. I’ve worked hard and come a long way, to the point where I forget about my injury most of the time. It is usually only the reaction of new humans when they see my limp that reminds me. But now I’m forced to think about it.
I don’t want Charlie to be badly hurt, which is what could eventually happen. If he were permanently scarred in some way, the way I am, I would blame myself.
But soon I come to realize that this task of getting Mom to concentrate on Charlie will be harder than I anticipated. There are other distractions brewing.